Hoboes working in train yards on oboes bust a lip or what does she make change with fire tongs

So you transitory or transporting the sort of private change making lounges

Open prints or once I was confined to a Dairy Queen where the supreme court justices hung out

Aching for Vancouver’s everyday tea-time dress codes but before one could flatulate

You unlocked the hoboes toiling on cheap-skate trombones. The supermarket has an underground cheese showroom

The warrior the supervisor and his family sleeps on folding cots angry or birdlike the moisture

On the mid-sections of slaving hoboes whose leprous or somewhere, there, pastry chefs prepare a cake for their jailed accountant

And in the frosting write “with love.” The government puts to sleep some heavenly dice throwers

Hoboes slavering away in a vestibule already singing death your wheelchair half-eaten or a herd of sea cows

Giving birth to invisibility. This autumn I squeeze

The locksmith’s cheeks and prescribe or my credit card flattens out the sea at eight o’clock leaving

The key beneath the door knocker and your travelogue unbelievably crowds into a doorway to escape the cold

The key doesn’t work angels or the storm is finally calming your change purse spills onto the sidewalk in full view of those

Ladies whose jalopy extends past the cashier’s office to the jeweler’s down the block. He uses

Blind men laboring clearly You know them, recognize them? The long racks of bombs and missiles

Or don’t you and so severely let people know at the day’s end the cool metals

The locksmith alchemizes. A soupless metropolis has no views, also no waterfowl

Only sheeps attired in flame retardant wool frocks lately designed for horses

The locksmith, consoling a man who has dropped his failed asparagus soufflé at his feet

We applaud your being slapped around the salt mines and the laundromat

The locksmith, working on locks, posing before a door you ended up kicking in, Hoboes in oak trees splicing together a cash register below

The front of Jesus’ sure-fire unemployment parade in April

Toiling, the locksmith meets the Mets in the jailyard and in the hearts of girls

Cultivating Monday out of muddy or the love of gunboats on the Nile

Jaundiced Grand Marshal whose days in exile are lit up by foreign investors,

Confessor of dusty pensioneers and pope concealors

Adopted father of both of them lonelily getting off the bus, which one carries the cup of black coffee in her suitcase

A craps shooter chased on foot from Duluth to South Dakota?!